In Spirit
by Reiya Wakayama
Summary: AU, S/J, pre-slash, Sherlock's had this ability since as far back as he can remember and even in death, people are still stupid, or so he thought until John came along.


**Title:** In Spirit

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.

**Summary:** AU, S/J, pre-slash, Sherlock's had this ability since as far back as he can remember and even in death, people are still stupid, or so he thought until John came along.

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** AU, murder, violence, kidnapping, Psychic!Sherlock, Spirit!John, angst, friendship, pre-slash

**Pairing/Characters:** Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (pre-slash), Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Mike Stamford, Molly, Jim Moriarty, Mrs. Hudson,

**Word Count:** 7,805

**Author's Note:** I wanted to read a Sherlock fic, where Sherlock was psychic and could see ghosts, which helped him solve cases (though mainly used deduction to solve them because stupid people are still stupid ghosts). I'm sure I could probably find one out there, but I'll settle for writing my own.

xXx

"Oh you stupid man, how dare you use my body so!" Sherlock tuned the old man's voice out, fingering his riding crop as he judged the best angle in which to strike at the body. Finding it, he went to work, working up a light sweat as the exercise took its toll on him.

Standing back, he turned to Molly who stood next to him. "So bad day, was it?" Molly joked, a small smile playing on her lips.

Ignoring her words he spoke over her. "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me." Ignoring her as she started to talk, he kept writing notes down, still ignoring the older man's voice wailing away to his right.

Glancing up, he took in her appearance, deducing what had changed since he last saw her in an instant. "You're wearing lipstick, you weren't wearing lipstick before."

"I…ah, I refreshed it a bit," she stammered.

"Sorry, you were saying." He went back to his notes.

"I was wondering if you would like to have coffee."

Ignoring what she was really asking, he replied. "Black, two sugars, I'll be upstairs." He walked off, leaving her behind. He could not understand Molly's fascination with him. No matter how many times he brushed her off, she still kept coming back, well that probably had something to do with him using her like of him to get body parts, but that was beside the point.

Stopping that train of thought, he went back to the work in front of him, eyeing the sample on the sterile table in front of him as the chemical reacted with his tissue sample. Looking up, he took in Mike Stamford walking in, alone. Well void of human company. The ghost of the soldier following him was hidden from his sight.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone, there's no signal on mine?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the ghost as he walked around the lab.

"And what's wrong with the land line?" Mike asked.

"I prefer to text."

Sighing, he searched his pockets, though it was clearly in his suit pocket. "Sorry, it's in my coat." Picking up the vial of blood he had come to collect, he nodded at Sherlock and left, leaving his ghost hitchhiker behind.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock called out quietly, causing the ghost to jump and turn to look at him.

"You can see me?" His voice was warm, though it shook with surprise.

"And hear and speak to you. So which was it?" Sherlock continued to fidget with the microscope he now stood in front of, staring at his sample.

"Afghanistan. How-"

"You're still in your combat gear, and the blood on your shoulder armor said wounded in action. Those are the only two places at the moment where a British soldier can go get wounded in action," Sherlock reasoned.

"Oh…that was…brilliant." Sherlock glanced up in time to see a smile flash across his face. His name badge stood out: WATSON. Smiling he turned back to his microscope, he ignored the dead soldier's spirit in favor of his sample. When he next looked up, Watson was gone.

The next time Sherlock saw Watson, he was sitting across from a cabbie turned serial killer and contemplating taking the pill in the vial. His eyes flicked towards the soldier who stood behind the cabbie.

"Both pills will kill you. He's already taken the antidote." Sherlock ignored Watson as he stared the cabbie down. It was only when he heard the click of a gun's safety being undone that he really looked at the soldier.

Watson was still dressed in his army fatigues; shoulder a mess of sand and blood. It took him a second to realize what was missing from him. He no longer had his helmet, the one he had been wearing when Sherlock had first seen him. His sun bleached blonde hair stood out in the shadowed room.

"It will kill you!" Watson yelled as Sherlock lifted the pill to his mouth. A second later and there was a bang as the gun fired. The cabbie turned astonished eyes onto Sherlock as he fell to the side, shoulder bleeding out his life blood.

By the time he was able to escape from Lestrade, it was nearly midnight. John was standing off to the side, looking on bemused at the way they were treating Sherlock. Ignoring the obvious black car rolling up, he headed for Watson. "You shouldn't have been able to do that," Sherlock said once in hearing distance. "How did you do that?"

"I…I'm not sure. I just pulled the trigger and it fired."

He didn't get to ask more as Mycroft strolled up. He tuned out his brother through most of their conversation, mind mostly on this new and fascinating conundrum. He only grunted at Mycroft's parting word, "Take care, Sherlock.", before he was turning back to Watson.

"Your name's Sherlock?" Watson asked, looking after the retreating figure.

Sherlock nodded. "Sherlock Holmes, world's only Consulting Detective."

"I'm John Watson. I am…was an army medic, until I got shot." He gestured a little at his shoulder.

"So, I observed," Sherlock replied coolly, before going on. "About what happened earlier…," he walked off, John following as he questioned the soldier.

For a few days, John stayed around, spending most of his time following Sherlock around as he went about his experiments at 221b Baker St. or at Bart's or wherever else he had something going on. Sherlock had tried to get him to follow Anderson and Donovan, but the ex-soldier had refused, saying it wasn't right, when they didn't know he was there. Sherlock had pointed out that that was the point, but had at least dropped it after seeing how uncomfortable it made him.

One morning, Sherlock awoke to the flat empty of the ghost. Shrugging it off, he went about his usual day, which wasn't very usual. By the next day, he felt a little unease, had John finally passed on? It was a probability. He hoped not, things had finally started to get interesting with the ghost around.

Two weeks later, when he had long assumed that John had passed on, he showed up again. "Where've you been?" Sherlock asked from his reclined position on the sofa. His hands were pressed together and he was thinking about his next case, given to him by an old college class mate.

"I was…somewhere else." Sherlock opened one eye to look at the ghost, but John refused to say more so he shrugged and started talking, giving the details of his latest case to John.

"I don't know if I can," John said as they stood outside the small flat of Soo Lin Yao's.

"It is plausible. You were able to fire that gun and it was as incorporeal as you are at the moment. It stands to reason that if you can make something intangible solid, you can make you own hand solid and unlock the door." Sherlock was leaned against the wall, eyeing the passing traffic as he talked with John. A Bluetooth ear piece was place in his ear. There was no need to have people believing he was some loony.

"I'll try." Sherlock stood there for some minutes, one ear listening for the telltale signs of the lock turning and keeping an eye on the traffic, feigning boredom. The lock clicked back and John's head pocked through the door.

"I've got it, but be careful, I can feel someone in here," John warned. Sliding in, he let his eyes scan the room for any disturbances. As he took a step into the room, he turned, eyeing the screen in the corner. "Where?" Sherlock asked softly.

"Behind you!" John shouted and Sherlock ducked and twisted as a twisted strip of cloth snapped around the spot his neck had been. Kicking out blindly, he felt his shoe connect with something solid and a soft grunt announced it as his attacker.

The man shoved Sherlock, sending him to the ground and by the time he righted himself, the man was gone. The sound of a vase smashing to the ground announced his escape route. Outside, no one was in sight, the remains of a Chinese vase and water scattered across the carpet.

"Sherlock," John called.

Sherlock was standing in the center of the room, holding something in his hands. Black origami paper, folded into a lotus blossom. Apparently, they had struck a nerve in the enemy. "We need to find out who Soo Lin Yao is and why they're after her," taking the origami, he stooped to grab a piece of paper from in front of her mail slot, "and this is where we'll find her."

Van Coon and Lukis's ghost had long since departed, but that was irrelevant at the moment. First, they needed to find Soo Lin Yao. It wasn't hard to hide in the museum after hours and wait. He should have realized that the assassin would just follow them to find her. Even he can miss things when he's pressed for time.

John was standing beside her body, her ghost next to him. Some things don't always work out, but every once in a while, his gift comes in handy. She stayed with them as Dimmock got their statements. Back at Baker St., she's a wealth of information and soon, they had the book they need and a translation of the message.

_'Nine mil for jade pin dragon den black tramway.'_ "All of this, three people dead, for a jade pin?" John stared down incredulously at the sheet. Soo Lin Yao next to him nodded solemnly.

Sherlock is looking through his tramway map, and who has one of those, looking for the place. "Ah ha!" He pointed to a black dot, 'Black Tramway' typed out next to it. "We should head over there now. We have the element of surprise."

"Soo Lin, will you…" John started to say before he noticed the empty air next to him. "Where'd she go?" he asked, turning to Sherlock.

"She's gone on to wherever it is spirits go. She must have felt that she had done enough for us that she was no longer needed. Come John, we needed to keep one step ahead?" Sending one more glance to the spot where she had stood, he followed Sherlock out the door, not even noticing when he passed through it.

Sherlock sat behind the ambulance, his arm being stitched by the medic with a frustrated look on his face. "You're mad, that General Shan got away?" John spoke up from in front of him.

The medic nodded and moved away, called by his partner. Sherlock waited until the man was out of range before speaking lowly, "A little."

"But you got her two henchmen. Isn't that enough? Besides, you cracked the cypher and now Dimmock can get the others," He asked, looking confused.

Sherlock really looked at him and realized what he'd been too busy to notice before. John had changed slightly again. He was down to his khaki cargo pants and boots. A tan T-shirt covered his torso. The spot of his wound was less obvious, the blood and sand nearly gone. His dog tags glinted in the light of a nearby street lamp.

"Their organization is vast and we barely scratched the surface. There will be more out there. And I only cracked this code. There must be dozens more and thousands of books to choose from. No, I don't think this will be the end of them."

Sherlock looked up from the floor to see John kneeling next to him, worried as glass and wood rained to the floor around him. "Are you alright?" John asked, helping him stand.

"Fine, just taken by surprise is all." Dusting himself off, he moved to the sofa, sifting glass and dust off of its seat and sitting. Outside, people were screaming and off in the distance, sirens called out the tragedy.

He didn't have long to wait before Mycroft appeared in the door way, the skin around his lips slightly pinched before it smoothed away at the sight of Sherlock, unharmed sitting amongst the mess. John, of course, took a step back when Mycroft turned his eyes to him.

"A friend, I presume." He pulled out a handkerchief and dusted off the chair across from Sherlock before taking a seat as well.

"How?" John asked, looking between the two brothers in confusion; fear just a hint of a frown on his brow as he took a step back.

"Unfortunately, the gene that allows me to observe the visage of the dead does not lie solely with myself. Mycroft also possesses the gene, though he has no need for it where he works." Sighing heavily, he gestured to his brother, "John, my brother Mycroft; Mycroft, Dr. John Watson."

Mycroft nodded, but turned back to Sherlock. "I don't want whatever case it is you have for me. I am extremely busy as you can see." He's not. He's been in his pajamas and silk robe for the past two days. Even his experiments are on the low; the ones he has currently take time and leave him with nothing to do.

"I'm sure you are…busy, as you say, but this is of the utmost importance," Mycroft reasoned, still sitting ramrod straight, his face betraying nothing to the urgency that he spoke of.

"And yet I am still busy. Now please leave. I have much work to be done." Mycroft sighed but stood in one fluid movement. A manila file appeared in his hand and was set on the glass covered coffee table between them. He left as quietly as he had come. Sherlock ignored the file, instead dusting his violin case off and pulling the instrument out. He played a screeching melody as John sat and watched.

"You like the funny cases, the surprising ones, don't you," Lestrade said as they walked through Scotland Yard to his office.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied.

"You'll love this. That explosion‒"

Sherlock cut him off, "Gas leak, yeah."

"No."

"No?" He turned in surprise, John following.

"No, made to look like one," Lestrade told him, looking grim.

"What?" John can see Sherlock's mind already going into motion, the gears turning as he assimilates this new piece of data.

"Hardly anything left of the place, except a strong box, a very strong box. Inside it was this." He pointed to an envelope, Sherlock's name scribed on its surface.

"You haven't opened it?" he asked, looking at Lestrade.

"It's addressed to you isn't it? We've x-rayed it; it's not booby-trapped," Lestrade informed him.

"How reassuring."

Taking it over to the lamp, he started to examine it, looking at all its minute details. "Nice stationary, bohemian."

"What?" Lestrade asked, looking confused.

"From the Czech Republic…no finger prints?" Sherlock asked, still looking it over.

"Nah," he answered, waiting for Sherlock to continue.

"She used a fountain pen, iridium nib."

"She?" Lestrade asked, coming closer.

"Obviously," Lestrade just waited for more. He opened it, the knife slicing through the paper easily. He tipped it and a pink phone slid out. "Similar, but not the same, meant to look like the one the cabbie stole from his last victim." He's mumbling now, ignoring Lestrade as he studied the phone.

He hit the button and the mechanical voice spoke up, _"you have 1 new message.'_ A series of five beeped follow.

"Is that it?" John asked, but only Sherlock heard him.

"No, that's not it," Sherlock said to the room. There's a picture of a dingy flat, devoid of anything except the peeling wallpaper and a fire place.

"Well, what the hell are we supposed to make of that? The state agent's photo and a bloody grange pibs."

"It's a warning."

Mrs. Hudson brought them the key to unlock the door to 221c Baker St. "The door's been opened recently," Sherlock announced.

"No, it can't be. That's the only key." The door is opened and the three of them troop in. In the room, everything is like the picture, only now a pair of shoes rest in the center of the room, drawing their gaze.

Sherlock watched John as he walked closer. "Just shoes, but…they reek of death," he told Sherlock, standing back as the detective got closer.

All three jumped as the phone went off, "Hello."

"Hello sexy." The woman's voice is shaky as she answered.

"Who is this?" Sherlock's brow is furrowed as he gathers data from the call.

"I-I sent you…a little puzzle, just to say hi." Her voice is shaking even more; you can tell she is crying.

"Who's talking, why are you crying?" Sherlock had already figured it out.

"I'm not crying, I'm typing and this stupid bitch is reading it out. You have 12 hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock or I'm going to be so naughty." The call shut off and they stood there in silence. Sherlock put it away and bent down to inspect the shoes closer.

"I'll need to analyze them to see what's so important about them." Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade as he pulled out his phone. "You can if you want to, but I doubt your team will find anything of importance in here. Our little bomber is too professional for that."

Ignoring him, Lestrade called in his team anyway. Sherlock just shrugged and picked the shoes up, sliding them into the bag Mrs. Hudson had provided for him at his request. He's in a cab and on his way to Bart's by the time Lestrade got off the phone.

Sherlock ignored them as he continued to work, Molly's glare not even affecting him as she left in a huff. "What do you think of these?" he asked, gesturing to the shoes.

When John didn't answer he looked up. John is staring after at the door Molly and Jim left through, a small frown in his brow. "What is it?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the spirit.

"I…I'm not sure. Just a feeling about that man," he pulled his eyes away.

"Don't tell me you're a homophobe?" Sherlock asked incredulously of him.

"I wasn't referring to his orientation and no I'm not. There's just something about him…something dark."

"Well, I doubt we'll be seeing him again. So I ask again: what do you think of these?" he pointed to the shoes again.

"That's your area. I don't‒"

"Just go on. An outside observation can help me to the end point and there are things you can sense that I can't," he reasoned with him.

He sighed, but nodded. He looked at them before taking a step closer. His hand hovered over them uncertainly. "Big size, men's shoes, but the style looks more for someone younger, a teen maybe. Well taken care of, but old style. And…and…"

"Keep going John, what else?" Sherlock's voice is coaxing, a deep rumble that guided him along.

"Pain, fiery pain…and water, water everywhere and no air to breath, to catch his breath. He's drowning." John was frowning heavily, caught up in the last moments of the person who owned these shoes. "He drowned and no one was there to help him. He died alone," John trailed off, shaking as he pulled his hand back slowly. "I can't, I don't want to do that again. I felt it…god, I felt him die and…and…"

"It's alright, John. I won't ask you to do that again." John's slowly calming down, his shaking fading. He's stopped fading in and out of existence as he got ahold of himself. "Better?"

John nods, "Yeah, sorry about that. It was intense. He died so many years ago and yet it felt fresh, like it happened hours ago."

"Karl Powers," Sherlock said aloud.

"Karl Powers?"

"He was the owner of these shoes," he pointed to the screen which has popped up with his results. His explanation was quick but thorough as he explained how he figured it out. "Now that I know who, I can work on how. Hopefully, these will tell us." He pulled one of the shoes closer.

"Clostridium Botulinan!" Sherlock cried out from his spot in the kitchen of his flat.

"What?" John asked, walking closer.

"Poison; it's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet."

"He was poisoned by this…Clost…"

"Clostridium Botulinan; the boy suffered from eczema. It would be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Later, it takes affect while he's in the pool. Paralyzes the muscles and he drowns."

"But the autopsy didn't pick it up."

"That's because it's nearly undetectable and nobody would have been looking for it." He rushed over to his open computer and brought up his website. He typed the answer quickly and hit enter.

They stood in silence and then the phone rang again. "Well done, you. Come and get me."

"What was the point of this?" Lestrade asked aloud as Sherlock paced his office. "Why would anyone want to do this?"

"I can't be the only one who gets bored," Sherlock said just as the phone beeped again, announcing a new message.

_'You have 1 new message.'_ Four beeps and a picture of a car, "It looks abandoned, wouldn't you say?" he asked Lestrade.

"I'll look to see if it's been reported missing." He moved to his computer.

The office door opened and Sargent Donovan was standing there. "Freak, it's for you." She held out a phone for him. John followed as he stepped out of the office.

"Hello?"

"It's okay that you've gone to the police." This voice is male and though it is shaky, he isn't crying like the woman had been.

"Who is this? Is this you again?"

"But don't rely on them. Clever you, guessing about Karl Powers; I never liked him. Karl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing," he said going on as if Sherlock hadn't spoken.

"You've stolen another voice I presume?"

"This is about you and me."

"Who are you? What's that noise?"

"The sounds of life, Sherlock, but don't worry. I can soon fix that. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight." The line went dead.

"How much blood was on that seat would you say?"

"How much, uh, about a pint."

"Not about, exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's but it's been frozen." He quickly explained about who spilled it.

"He was in some sort of trouble, some sort of money trouble I would guess, he's a banker. Seeing no way out, he went to them for a way out."

"Then where is he then?"

"Columbia."

His phone beeped while they sat in a diner. Sherlock has a cup of cooling coffee in front of him that went untouched. _'You have 1 new message.'_ There were three beeps and a picture of a woman.

"That could be anyone."

"It's a good thing I watched telly then, isn't it?" John stood before Sherlock could answer and walked to the TV mounted on the wall. On tiptoes, he pressed the button, no one noticing the changing channels and the fact that there was no one touching the remote. It faded in on a talk show talking about the woman.

The phone rang as John walked back over and Sherlock answered, "Hello?"

The woman's voice is weary, the age evident in her tone, "This one is a bit defective…Sorry, she's blind…This is a funny one…I'll give you twelve hours."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I like…to watch you…dance." She was starting to panic, taking gasping breaths when the line is cut off.

"Are you all right?" John asked later in the flat. Sherlock was staring ahead having already turned off the TV in a fit of pique. Twelve people were dead, including the old lady. He'd been silent all the way home.

"He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once he put himself in the firing line." His eyes were distant, his thoughts in a whirl as he teased the information out that he had gathered so far.

"What do you mean?" John asked, leaning forward a little.

"Usually, he must stay above it all, he organizes these things but no one ever has direct contact," he said, gesturing a little.

"What, you mean the Connie Prince murder…he arranged that?" John asked, confused by Sherlock's train of thought. "So people come to him, wanting their crimes fixed up, what, like booking a holiday?"

"Novel," Sherlock said and looked far too intrigued for John's comfort.

By the time they reached the body of the latest victim, his spirit was already gone. Although John was still angry for Sherlock's lack of concern for the human lives at risk, he still went along to help as much as he could. John knew that deep down, Sherlock's indifference was just a defense mechanism to protect him, but it still burnt a little to see his eyes so cold.

He and Lestrade stand back to let the detective get to work and even with the anger, he was still awed like every other time at the way Sherlock can dismantle a scene with such ease and grace, finding all the clues he will need for later.

John nudged Sherlock in the side as he and Lestrade started to argue and he quieted for a moment before explaining the path he took and the leaps of, now plain once spoken, logic he took to reach his answer.

"So do you care to explain?" John asked aloud as they trekked down the alley. Sherlock paced ahead, eyes scanning for any clues.

"Homeless network: my eyes and ears all over the city." He flipped a small flashlight on, shining it down a darker passage.

"So you scratch their back…," John started.

"Yes, and then disinfect myself." Turning, he started down the side passage.

It's dark in the tunnel, the smell rank with hints of the unwashed human bodies that live there…and yet Sherlock strode through it as if he knew it. It's food for thought later. "Sherlock!" he hissed as he saw the shadow on the wall down another alley.

He barely had time to draw his gun when the Golem was running. Sherlock cursed as the car pulled away. He's off again though, racing to hail a cab as he made another connection. John just followed after him, on guard.

It's dark and the music was blaring all around them as Sherlock and the Golem fought on the stage. John had his gun drawn, but he couldn't get a clear shot, the man's hold on the detective putting Sherlock in his path as he smothered the life from him.

John's about to fire when the Golem threw Sherlock forward, who collided into John, knocking the gun from his hand. It clattered to the floor and Sherlock jumped for it, twisting around to start firing at the man's retreating form, missing every shot.

He laid there panting, brow furrowed in thought. "How was that even possible?" John asked, coming to crouch next to his prone form. "I mean, it just became real all of a sudden."

He held  
>out his hand and Sherlock handed the gun over, still thinking over something. "We'll figure that out later. Come on, I need to look something over."<p>

The next morning, they're in the museum, staring at the painting. "It's a fake, it has to be." Sherlock muttered, staring down at his phone, waiting for something.

The only others there are Lestrade and the curator of the piece of fake art. He ignored her words, looking through the internet for any clue as to how it was a fake. The phone rang and he answered it quickly, "The painting is a fake," nothing but silence, "it's a fake, that's why Woodridge and Cairns were killed." Still silence. "Ah, come on, proving it is just a detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake, that's the answer. That's why they were killed," he shouted; face set in grim lines as he waited for a response. Finally, he breathed deeply, "Okay, I'll prove it, give me time. Will you give me time?"

"Ten…," John stared in horror at the phone as Sherlock moved to look at the painting closer. It's a child on the line this time. This game was getting out of hand and Sherlock didn't seem to realize it yet.

He didn't seem to care the about the words pouring out of his mouth, having too much fun solving another puzzle. "Sherlock!" John yelled at the man.

"The Van Burin Super Nova," he shouted into the phone. The relief is almost palpable when the child started to talk on his own. Sherlock handed the phone to Lestrade, leaving with a large smirk on his face.

"I thought you weren't going to do this?" John huffed out as they walk down a road. Sherlock had directed the cab to take them to the tracks where Andrew West was killed. They had left a few minutes ago, following the tracks down towards the more populated area. Once there he hailed a cab.

"Mycroft has his uses and solving this case for him will make him agreeable, for the foreseeable future. I plan to exploit that as much as possible." Sherlock stopped the cab in front of a group of flats and got out. He studied them for a moment before taking the stairs up.

"Who's flat is this?" Sherlock knelt down, lock picks out as he worked on the main door.

"The brother of West's fiancé: Joe Harrison."

John sucked in a breath as the door opened; the emotional storm that had been sealed inside washing over him. Sherlock glanced at him, but John just shook his head and continued in. He had to concentrate but he could ignore the way the negative feelings were trying to cling to him, wanting to weigh him down.

"And why are we here?"

"Because he killed West," Sherlock proclaims, using his magnifier to show John the drops of blood on the windowsill.

"Why did he kill him though?" He still couldn't see why the man would kill his sister's fiancé. He knew his sister was happy with the man, why ruin that?

There's a jingle of keys at the door, "Why don't we ask him?"

John's distracted on the ride home, sitting in pensive silence in the cab. Sherlock was lost in thought himself, trying to piece together clues on who this Moriarty was. He's not surprised when, once they are home, Sherlock curled in the chair. Though the TV was being put on to pointless shows is a little new, John doesn't really care.

Something's bothering John; tugging at the back of his mind like a bad memory that's been suppressed. Whatever it was, he could feel the pull, leading away from 221b Baker St. Deciding to find out what it was, he stood, "I'll be back later." Sherlock just nodded absently, eyes focused on the TV. John's gone the next instant, winking out of sight, letting the tug pull him across London to wherever it lead.

Sherlock waited until he's gone before pulling out the stashed laptop. _'Found. The Bruce-Partington plan. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.'_ Putting the computer aside, he stared into space for a few moments. The phone going off startled him and he glanced down at the pink device.

_'You have 1 new message.' _The final pip sounded and an image of a hospital, the name clear and unmistakable: St. Bart's. A number flashed across the screen: 221 12 pm. Heart beating quickly, he stood and left the flat.

The hospital is quiet, empty, and almost lifeless. Sherlock knew there were nurses and doctors on night duty but he saw none of them as he stalked silently down a familiar corridor. The second floor was dedicated for the long term patients. He could hear the machines beeping quietly in each room.

221 is the last one in this hall. Sherlock stood at the door, unsure of what he would find in the room. He could hear beeping inside, the sound of a pump as it breathed for whoever was in the room. Taking a breath, he opened the door an inch, looking inside. The room was dark, the only real light coming from street lights outside the window.

The person on the bed was obscured by drawn privacy curtains. Stepping up, Sherlock held out a hand and pulled them back, the metal rings rattling against the metal rail they are hanging from. John lay on the bed.

There was a tube down his throat, helping him breath. Wires and tubes seem to grow from his skin, keeping him alive. Bandages incase his shoulder where Sherlock knew John had been shot. "John?" he whispered. This couldn't be right.

"Sherlock," Sherlock's head jerks up to see John standing beside his body, eyes unfocused. He swayed, but didn't fall. He looked again at the body on the bed and could only stare in horror as he finally took in the vest of explosives laid over John's prone body.

"Sherlock, I don't feel so good," John said slowly, as if it was taking a lot of effort just to talk. John went to take a step forward and seemed to hit some sort of wall. He pushed away and stood back in his original position. Sherlock could see some sort of symbol drawn out on the floor in something white, most likely salt. "He…he, Sherlock, he's, uh, what is this…," he said lowly, pushing uselessly against the barrier.

"Where are you?" Sherlock called out, looking around. He could see the laser point on John's chest, and knew that it was connected to something even worse. He was growing tired of this game with Moriarty, "Show yourself."

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call." A voice whispered over the intercom. There was a second bed in the room, but he hadn't looked inside. Its curtain pulled back, "Jim Moriarty…hi."

He slid off of the bed, smirk seeming engraved onto his face. "Jim, Jim from the hospital? Huh, did I really make such a fleeting expression? Then again, that was rather the _point_. Of course I wasn't expecting your little pet here. Now Sherlock, that's not playing fairly," he scolded gently, as if admonishing a child.

Sherlock glanced at John's body, at the laser fixed on it. "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the gun. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

"Liar," John hissed out, pressing more insistently against the barrier. Beside him, his body remained still, unresponsive. "I felt what you did to him, what you did to Karl. You were certainly willing to get your hands dirty then."

"Hush now, pet. Mummy and daddy are speaking." He did something with his hand and John doubled over, gasping for breath. He turned back to Sherlock. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock. Just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see…like you!" he said, brows arching in feigned surprise.

"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me‒" he started.

"Sherlock, get out of here," John pleaded softly.

Moriarty gestured again and John fell to his knees, curled into a fetal position as he keened in the back of his throat. "Really, Sherlock, you must train your pet better."

"A consulting criminal…brilliant," Sherlock tuned out the noises John was making, it wouldn't help.

"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me…and no one ever will," his voice was soft, almost hypnotizing.

"I did."

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my _way_," he gloated, smirk gone for a second.

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

"Yay, okay, I did. But the flirting's over Sherlock, daddy's had enough _now_. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear…back off; although, I have loved this. This little game of ours, playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died." It was pointless to reason with him, but he needed to keep Moriarty distracted long enough to think.

"That's what people _DO!_" His yell echoed hollowly around the room.

"I will stop you."

"No you won't."

"You all right?" John seemed to have gotten ahold of himself and was kneeling on the floor, watching the two of them. He remained silent.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead, pet," Moriarty goaded, smirking down at him. John just jerked his head once, downward for Sherlock, never taking his eyes off the two of them.

"What have you done?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the thing that was trapping John's spirit.

"Come now, you're the detective, figure it out on your own," Moriarty said with an even bigger smirk. Sherlock said nothing. "You mean, you don't know? You have this gift and you never once looked into what it means? Oh, daddy is very disappointed in you Sherlock. I guess I will just have to teach you."

He looked over at John. "Your little pet here is a unique type of spirit. His body isn't dead, though it would be without the machines. A body does need a spirit in it to live. Too long gone and the body dies. Except, with the machinery…"

"It keeps the body alive while the spirit wanders. Except with only his sister, who wouldn't want to, there is no one to pull the plug, so he stays in this state indefinitely." Sherlock could see so many puzzle pieces about John falling into place.

"Just so, only it takes a special type of person to do what your little pet has done. I did a little research of my own. It seems our little Johnny-boy here is descended from a long line of mediums, able to move freely from the human plain to the spirit plain. I must say, you do find the interesting ones. I never would have guessed such a person would have existed without you."

"And the barrier?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the barrier.

"A trap designed to cut mediums off from their bodies. Held too long inside and they lose their connection to the living world and become a true spirit and the body dies. Your little pet is a lot more resilient than I had thought. He's lasted a lot longer than I had anticipated, but the wait only makes the end so much sweeter. How long do you think he can last before he falls?"

"Here, just take the plans and let John go." Sherlock held out the memory stick.

"Huh, oh, that…the missile plans," he held the 's' out longer, making it seem like a snake's hiss. He took the stick, looking down at it. "Boring, I could have got them anywhere." Dropping it, he brought his heel down on it and the plastic casing broke under the impact.

"Sherlock, just get out of here, don't worry about me!" John yelled at him, pressing against the barrier with his shoulder, trying to break it down. Moriarty didn't even say anything, just waved a lazy hand and brought John to his knees again.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone Sherlock…to you?" Moriarty asked, arching a playful brow.

"Oh, let me guess, I get killed."

"Kill you, uh, no, don't be obvious. I mean I'm going to kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying…I will burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you!"

"I have been viably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true." He turned a sly smirk on to John who was still on the floor, not even paying attention anymore. "Well, I better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat," he started to take a step around Sherlock, eyeing him the whole time, "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch. You. Later," he shot back, never turning his back to him.

"No you won't." he singsonged and disappeared down a separate hallway.

He waited a final moment before rushing over to John's body. "All right? Are you alright?" he asked as he struggled with the strap that was keeping the vest onto the bed. Getting it undone, he lifted and threw the vest through the still open doorway and let it slide down the hall.

"Yes, I'm all right," John answered, face looking weary.

"How do I…?" he started to ask, gesturing down at the thing holding John's spirit.

"I'm…not sure. I think you just break the line." Nodding, Sherlock used his foot to toe at the white line, disturbing it and the barrier winked out. He bent down to get a closer look. He was right, it was salt.

John stepped free and stood by his body, looking down at it. "Did you know?" Sherlock asked him, coming to stand beside him.

John shook his head. "I was twelve when Mum and Dad died in a car accident. We stayed with Dad's parents until we were old enough to live on our own. I went off to med school and Harry married Clara soon after. Mum was more superstitious than most but she never said anything. Then she was gone and she never had a chance. I don't know any of my relatives on her side of the family. No one's ever contacted me."

"That is because your extend family on your mother's side does not know you exist, Dr. Watson." They both turned to see Mycroft in the doorway, leaning on his umbrella. Behind him, people swarmed the vest, deactivating it. "Your mother married against her parents' wishes. She was disowned and lost all contact with them. I believe she wished to keep your inheritance hidden so you could live a normal life."

"How long have you known?" Sherlock demanded of his brother.

"I had an inkling, but it was only until now that my suspicions were confirmed." He turned as one of his men came forward and whispered something to him. Nodding in confirmation, the man left, taking the vest and the rest of Mycroft's people with him. "The bomb is no longer a threat. My people have found the staff as well. Knocked out and stored in the morgue. They will be fine."

"How…I don't know how to get back," John whispered, looking down at his body in frustration.

"You will be able to learn later. There is a simpler way. Unplug the machines keeping you alive. Once your body is working on its own, it should draw you back in as a defense mechanism to keep from dying."

"John?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the spirit.

"Do it." His hand tightened on the railing of the hospital bed, braced for anything to come. Nodding, Sherlock walked over and pressed a couple buttons. There was a moment of nothing and then the pump slowly came to a stop. Stepping up, Sherlock disconnected the tubing to John's body, leaving the mouth free.

They stood there for a few tense seconds, waiting, watching as John's chest rose and fell on its own. Then John tensed, feeling the pull from his body. It had been what he had felt before this whole mess started and how Moriarty had drawn him in. For a second, he resisted, but it felt right, like coming home. He blinked once, twice and then closed his eyes, letting the feeling wash through him…

Blinking, he stared up at the ceiling above. Light streamed through the privacy curtains, and his eyes watered at the brightness. His body was stiff and his shoulder hurt like hell, but he realized he was back in his body, not dead, not a spirit and he couldn't help but grin.

"Oh good, you're finally awake," Sherlock said, pulling the curtains back. "Come on, get up. We've got a case." He chucked something at John, "Here, clothes. Hurry up."

John stared at him for a second in confusion, "Sherlock, I'm not a spirit anymore. I can't just get up and go. I'm in a hospital. I've got to be released."

"Must you be so slow? You're in a private hospital, Mycroft has taken care of all the details, and you can just up and leave. The doctor was already in to see you and proclaimed you sound enough to leave, once you woke up. Now stop wasting time and get dressed." He whirled around and stalked out of the room.

Getting changed took a little bit of time. His shoulder was still healing and he realized too late that his leg had a limp and hurt, but he still managed to do it by himself. A sling was tucked into the clothing and he strapped himself into it, letting it support his arm and shoulder.

"Are you done ye…oh, well come along. We need to get moving." Sherlock turned and started to walk away again, but John didn't budge. Sighing dramatically, Sherlock turned to look at him, "What is it?"

"Are you sure you need me?" The detective just looked exasperated at his words so John plowed further ahead before he could speak. "I don't know much of anything about my abilities. I've only just learned about having them. I can't protect you with no gun and my arm in a sling. I don't even know how I did all of those things when I was a spirit, let alone how to do them as a human. I'm just useless to you right now."

"If I didn't want you to come, I wouldn't have asked you John," he said irritably.

"Yes, but‒"

"Quit being an idiot and come on, Lestrade is waiting for us." He turned once more and started walking away, not waiting for John. John sighed, but followed, just like old times, though he couldn't keep a small smile off his face; though when Sherlock shut the door of the cab in his face, it disappeared. "Sherlock, I'm not a spirit anymore," he growled out, yanking the door open. "I can't just walk through walls now." Sherlock had the decency to look a little apologetic, though he didn't say anything as he told the driver where to go.

**End.**


End file.
